You know, having gone through this whole series, breaking down each episode in eye-bleeding detail, “Who Shot Mr Burns (Part One)” feels like something momentous in a way catching it on reruns or seeing it on DVD didn’t. I missed the boat on catching it live, being too busy preparing for kindergarten at the time, so I have no idea what the sense of awe or anticipation was, but trying to decode this series means I can recognise that rules are being broken and the scale has shifted. Just last week, beloved commentor Simon Del Monte remarked that “Lemon Of Troy” was surreal without having anything actually impossible happen (outside of that flying motorcycle), but here we have Mr Burns literally blocking out the sun. But the episode very clearly sells this as the logical extension of everything we know about Burns, infinitely evil enough to want to take everything, infinitely old enough to pull it off (I suppose his infinite age doesn’t factor into the plot that much). If “Lemon Of Troy” is an ordinary feeling made larger-than-life, “Who Shot Mr Burns? (Part One)” is larger-than-Simpsons. It’s something present in the plotting as much as the action; this is the first and so far only two-parter the show has ever done, and I’ve always been fascinated by how it fit into both episodic television as a whole and mystery stories specifically. Many two-parters from before the so-called Golden Age Of Television and especially before LOST hit the scene are the same number of plot beats spread out over twice the time, and your classic mystery stories are all about planting clues to the solution so that, even if your audience doesn’t or can’t solve it, they can at least go back and say ‘aha, the clues were all there!’. This episode serves the latter and overcomes the former by making its victim, Burns, the protagonist. From a formal dramatic perspective, the episode is all action and only a single consequence, a long buildup of bad will for Burns as he cheerfully destroys anything and everything in his quest for power; when he’s walking through the street, we’re almost crying out for some kind of payoff. I love the immediate buildup to it too, the jokingly spooky “That’s odd!” statements cutting between his jaunty walk, building up into something genuinely spooky. It’s another case – perhaps the definitive case – of the show using genre and cinematic rules to sell a real emotion as much as a joke.

I suppose the first question is, what kind of town is Springfield? I’ve said time and time again that the town of Springfield is this show’s secret weapon, the one thing it does that very few of its imitators do, even the successful ones; Family Guy built up a wide cast over the years, but Quahog doesn’t feel as rich and full a place as Springfield does. I’m always shitting on FG in these essays, so I will say something fair here in that it’s a perfectly legitimate creative choice – FG’s characters are as much a ‘reference’ for the show to make as, like, Transformers and Benjamin Disraeli, pulled out and combined with some concept like a sketch comedy character, and there’s no need for them to feel like a full character or place the way Springfield does. What I mean to say is, Springfield works by a unique but totally clear set of rules, ones that have been created and refined almost to the level of a real place. Springfield Elementary never has enough money. Barney spends his whole life in Moe’s Tavern. Mr Burns never remembers Homer’s name. The school and Homer’s name are fascinating parallels in this respect; the plot is kicked off by throwing an oil supply under the school, giving Burns the ability to literally rob children, and that’s taking one truism of the show and going in a new direction with it, akin to how the show keeps going further with Homer’s sacrifices for Lisa every time it goes to that well. Conversely, the plot of Homer finally losing patience with Burns never remembering his name is a whole plot generated out of a simple running gag that, itself, was a joke about having to recap the audience on what had happened in old episodes – that is, the plot of Springfield Elementary condenses one idea while the joke about Burns forgetting Homer is stretched out to hilarious levels. With my point being, Burns is walking through this town, running roughshod over things we’ve known for a long time. What’s really interesting is that we also see the character of the town. As Burns points out, however much they hate him, none of them have the brains or the backbone to actually take him out; the shot from his POV as every single Springfielder finds they can’t look him in the eye (save one!) is something almost emotionally profound. We know these people are cynical, shortsighted, stupid, and often detached from reality, but none of them are killers, even to take down the worst villain in town – none of these people are going to go to jail to save everyone.

The second question is, who is Mr Burns? The flipside of making him our protagonist is that we identify with him a little bit. At many points, he has Smithers beside him to act as a voice of moral authority we can attach ourselves to, someone who can safely say “stealing money from children and blocking out the sun is evil”, but the scene of him watching the streetlights start up is outright whimsical, dancing with the lamps like a character in a Fifties musical. This is a man who seizes every means towards power and control, who crushes children without a second thought, and then enjoys the rush. If you’ll forgive me for bringing the Unwashed Orange into it, this is something that seems to factor into at least one section of the left’s disgust with President Trump – the man doesn’t seem to actually enjoy any of the things he does or wealth and privilege he has access to. Burns may be a villain, but he’s a villain we want in our lives, if only so we can defeat him. He’s smart, well-spoken to the point of poetry, and endowed with so much ambition that all the money in the world isn’t enough. Perhaps, like many great villains, he’s everything we want to be, but turned in the wrong direction.

Chalkboard Gag: This is not a clue… or is it???
Couch Gag: The family run past with an infinite background.

This episode was written by Bill Oakley and Josh Weinstein and directed by Jeffrey Lynch. It was decided the mystery would have clues based on freeze-framing technology, which is another way this is an extension of all the normal work on this show. The central clue is Burns falling on the sundial and pointing at W and S, and many characters are revealed to have those initials this episode: Waylon Smithers, W. Seymour Skinner, as well as characters with the reverse letters: Moe Szyslak, Simpson Mutt (as Burns calls him), Sideshow Mel. The second and actual biggest clue is that with freeze-frame one can see his gun is missing. The third, more spiritual clue is that the killer is the only character not to look away from Burns as he pans over the crowd.

Skinner, Burns, and Smithers talking is a scene I’ve always been struck by because it’s a rare one outside of Burns and Smithers alone where all the characters are played by one guy, which is so strange! The sundial actually shows up in the story long before Burns falls on it, when Smithers references it as something that won’t function after, you know, the sun gets blocked out.

The title and overall premise is taken from the famous “Who Shot J.R.?” plotline of the series Dallas. Burns saying his package “absolutely, positively” has to arrive in Pasadena overnight is reference to an old FedEx slogan. The song Burns sings to the lamppost is a parody of “The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feeling Groovy)” by Simon & Garfunkel. The musical score when the credits roll is a parody of John Williams’ music for JFK. An episode of Mystery Science Theatre 3000 comes on after an ad for Pardon My Zinger.

Iconic Moments: Oddly enough, for what may be the show’s last gasp of topical relevance until The Problem With Apu, this has no lines that I see reused into oblivion.
Biggest Laugh: This is a great gag that gets funnier the longer I think on it. Willie fully believes Smithers is somewhat culpable but also recognises its in a lesser way, which requires a lesser revenge.

That’s odd. Drunk Napoleon left this link to his Ko-Fi behind.

Anyway, it turns out the baby did it.